Tenacious (14 page)

Another captain arrived, a man with deep-set eyes, who punctiliously raised his hat to Nelson even while the admiral welcomed him.

“Ball,
Alexander.
Much caressed by Our Nel since he passed us the tow-line in that blow off Sardinia.” Kydd looked at him.

There was little of the bluff sea-dog about the ascetic figure, nothing to suggest that this was a seaman of courage and skill.

The last was a slightly built officer with guarded eyes. “Darby,
Bellerophon.
Keeps t’ himself, really.”

“Shall we go below?” There was a compelling urgency in the tone.

Kydd followed them in trepidation into the admiral’s quarters where the large table in the great cabin was spread with charts.

“Do sit, gentlemen,” Nelson said. His clerk busied himself with papers. Kydd took a small chair to one side.

“
Tenacious
stopped a Ragusan brig not two hours ago.

Lieutenant Kydd—” he nodded at Kydd, who bobbed his head

“—performed the boarding and is available for questions. I am satisfied that he has brought reliable word.

“He has found that the French armament is no longer at Malta. It has sailed. And we have no indication of course or intent. None. I do not have to tell you that our next action is of the utmost consequence, which is why I have called you together to give me your views and strategic reasoning.”

Saumarez broke the silence. “Sir, are we to understand that

this is in the nature of a council-of-war?” he said carefully. It was an important point: if a later inquiry found Nelson’s decision culpable, the formalities of a council would provide for him some measure of legal protection—at the cost of involving themselves.

“No, it is not. Kindly regard this as—as a conference of equals, Saumarez,” he said, with a frosty smile. “Now, to business. The French have left Malta. Where are they headed?”

He looked at each captain in turn. “I desire to have you answer this question. Do we stand on for Malta or steer for Sicily?

Or do you consider it altogether another destination?”

Kydd recalled that this was Nelson’s first command of a fleet of ships in his own right: was he seeking support for a command decision that should be his alone?

“May we have your own conclusions first, sir?” Troubridge asked.

“Very well. They might be on their way back to France after their conquest, but I doubt it. And, besides, they’d find it a hard beat with transports against this nor’-westerly. No, in my opinion they are headed further into the eastern Mediterranean.” He stopped.

“The Turks and Constantinople,” murmured Troubridge.

“I think not.”

“The Holy Land? There’s plunder a-plenty there and a royal route to India across Mesopotamia.” It was the youthful-looking Berry, present as captain of the flagship.

“Possibly.” As there were no further offerings, Nelson declared incisively, “There is one objective that I think outweighs all others. Egypt.”

There were mutterings, but Nelson cut through forcefully:

“Yes, Egypt. Should they take the biggest Mediterranean port, Alexandria, they have then but twenty leagues overland and they

are at the Red Sea, and from there
two weeks
to our great possessions in India.”

Saumarez stirred restlessly. “Sir, saving your presence, I find this a baseless conjecture. We have not one piece of intelligence to support such a conclusion.”

“Nevertheless, this is my present position,” Nelson said. “I should be obliged for your arguments to the contrary. In the absence of news we deal in speculation and presumption, sir. We must reason ourselves to a conclusion. This is mine.”

Troubridge leaned back with a broad smile. “’Pon my word, Sir Horatio, this will set them a-flutter in Whitehall. Conceive of it—the entire fleet dispatched to the most distant corner of the Mediterranean, to Egypt no less! The Pyramids, the desert—”

“Whitehall is two months away. The decision will be made today.” The reflected sun-dappled sea played prettily on the deck-head, but it also threw into pitiless detail the admiral’s deep lines of worry, the prematurely white hair, the glittering eye.

“Then I concur,” Troubridge said. “It has to be Alexandria.”

“Should Alexandria be captured, our interests in India will be at appalling risk. This cannot be allowed.” Unexpectedly, it was Saumarez.

“Yes. Captain Ball?”

“It seems the most likely course, sir.”

“Darby?”

“Putting to sea in a wind foul for France does appear an unlikely move unless their intentions lie eastward.”

“Anything further? No? Then it shall be Alexandria. Thank you, gentlemen.”

A thousand sea miles to the east—to the fabled Orient: the Egypt of Cleopatra, the Sphinx, the eternal Nile. And a French invasion fleet waiting for them there. The English fleet prepared accordingly.

100

The most vital task was to crowd on as much sail as possible to try to overhaul the French and force a meeting at sea before the landings. The winds were fair for the Levant and, with stuns’ls abroad, the fleet sped across the glittering deep blue seas for day after day. There was little sail-handling with the winds astern, and for watch after watch there was no need to brace and trim: the steady breeze drove them onward in an arrow-straight course for the south-east corner of the Mediterranean.

Gun practice filled the day: gun crews were interchanged, side-tackle men put on the rammer, the handspike, and gun captains were stood down while the seconds took charge. It was fearful work in the summer heat, tons of dead iron to haul in and out, twenty-four pounds in each shot to manhandle. Gun-carriages squealed and rumbled even in the light of evening.

At daybreak, as soon as there was the slightest lightening of the sky, doubled lookouts at the masthead searched the horizons until they could be sure there was no strange sail. Then, after quarters, the men would go to breakfast among the guns that shared their living space. And always the thought, the secret dread, that the enemy were just ahead, a vast armada covering the sea from horizon to horizon that would result in a cataclysmic battle to be talked about for the rest of time.

It took the English fleet less than a week to cover the distance, keeping well away from land and stopping all ships they could find for the barest clue as to the French positions. In the morning light, a hazy coastline formed ahead and the fleet went to quarters. Ships fell into two columns and prepared for battle, keyed up to the highest pitch of readiness.

The low coast firmed and drew nearer. Kydd raised his telescope to a dense scatter of white against the nondescript sandy shore, the straggling ancient town of Alexandria with its Pharos

Tower. He passed quickly over the tall minarets and the lofty sea-mark of Pompey’s Pillar amid the pale stone sprawl of a medieval fort. The forest of black masts that they sought was missing.

Kydd knew from such charts as they had that the port had two harbours, each side of a mushroom-shaped peninsula of land.

The fleet passed slowly by, telescopes glinting on every quarterdeck, but at the end it was all too clear that there was no French fleet at anchor anywhere in Alexandria. The disappointment was cruel.

Mutine
hove to closer inshore. A boat pulled energetically from her to
Vanguard.
Was she returning with longed-for news?

Conversations stilled about the deck as the ships lay to. Within the hour, boats were passing up and down the fleet with their message—no French fleet, no news whatsoever of it.

Kydd kept his glass trained on the flagship. He could make out people on her upper deck, some moving, some still, and once he recognised a small, lonely figure standing apart. It was not difficult to imagine the torment that must be racking their commander. It had been his final decision to come to Egypt to seek the French, but they were not here—it might be that they had been comprehensively fooled and that the enemy was on his way in the other direction to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, to fall upon England while they were in this furthest corner of the Mediterranean.

In hours the fleet was under weigh and
Tenacious
was stretching to the north-westward, ship’s company stood down from quarters. The sea watch was set and word was passed that Houghton, who had been called to the admiral before they set sail, wished all officers to present themselves in his cabin.

“I am desired by Sir Horatio to acquaint you all with the position we find ourselves in.” It was unusual—unprecedented, even—that Houghton had sat them informally round a smaller
102

table with an evening glass of sherry. This was not going to be the official passing on of orders.

“I will not attempt to conceal the dismay the absence of the enemy has caused the admiral,” Kydd caught Renzi’s eye but there was nothing in it except sombre reflection, “and the dilemma this causes. Our vice-consul tells us that there have been no French forces upon this coast, save some Venetian frigates and small fry. He also swears that the Ottomans have found our own presence as unwelcome as the French, and intend to resist any move of aggression. In this we can see that there are definitely no major enemy forces in the vicinity.”

The officers waited patiently as Houghton continued, “Trading ships in harbour have been questioned and are adamant that there are no French at sea. It is as if they have vanished.”

“Then, sir, we are obliged to conclude that Admiral Nelson is wrong in the essentials,” said Bampton, heavily. “And thus we are beating to the nor’ard on speculation!”

Houghton’s eyes narrowed. “Take care, Mr Bampton. This is the commander of the fleet you are questioning.”

Bampton’s lips thinned and he continued obstinately, “Nevertheless, sir, it seems we are at sea on a venture once again with not a scrap of intelligence to justify it. I am at a loss to account for his motions.”

Houghton put down his glass sharply. “It is not your duty to account for the actions of your commander. Recollect your situation, sir!”

Kydd felt for any man who, faced with a decision, put action above faint-hearted inaction, and said strongly, “T’ put it plain, he has no intelligence t’ work with—so what do you expect, sir?

Lies in port waitin’ for word t’ be passed, or figures something an active officer can do?”

“And that is . . . ?” said Bampton acidly.

Houghton came in quickly: “Sir Horatio feels that the objective still remains in the eastern Mediterranean, possibly the Turks—

Constantinople, perhaps. Consider: if this great armada prevails over the Ottomans then not only Asia Minor but necessarily the Holy Land and Egypt fall to the French.”

Kydd’s mind reeled with the implications. “And then he’ll have cut the Mediterranean in two.”

“Just so. We shape course to the north, gentlemen, to Asia Minor and the Greek islands, again seizing every opportunity to gather intelligence where we may. The enemy cannot hide a fleet of such size for ever.”

As they left the cabin, Renzi murmured to Kydd, “Even so, Nelson will be hard put to justify his conduct before their lord-ships of the Admiralty—twice he has missed them, and for a junior admiral on his first command . . .”

In the steady north-westerly it was a hard beat northward, close-hauled on the larboard tack with bowlines at each weather leech.

As they struck deeper into the north it appeared not a soul had seen anything of the French and the further on they sailed the less likely a mighty descent on Constantinople seemed.

It was passing belief that the passage of such a great fleet had gone unnoticed, and when they attained the entry-point of the Aegean and therefore Constantinople without finding a soul who had heard of a French fleet, it was time to take stock.

“Ah, Mr Adams—returned from the Flag with orders, I see.” Even Bampton was curious as he watched the young officer spring over the bulwarks on his return from the flagship. Houghton opened the order book and studied the last entry, then snapped it shut. He would not be drawn and, with a frown, retired to his cabin, leaving the deck to his officers.

104

“Well?” demanded Bryant. Others sidled up: the quartermaster hovered and the master found it necessary to check the condition of the larboard waterway.

Adams adjusted his cuffs. “I must declare,” he said lightly,

“Our Nel is the coolest cove you’ll ever meet—French armada loose, who knows where, and he won’t hear any as say it won’t end in a final meeting. So, it’s to be a continuation of the same, battle-ready night and day until we come up with ’em.”

“Dammit, Adams, does he say
where
we’re lookin’?” Bryant hissed.

“Well, I was not actually consulted by Sir Horatio but, er, I did overhear him speaking with Berry.”

Kydd smiled.

“And it seems that if we’ve not sighted ’em by twenty-seven east, then we beat south about Candia, back to the western Med.”

“Quitting the chase!” said Bampton, with relish.

“Fallin’ back on Gibraltar, more like,” Bryant snapped. “No choice.”

Kydd growled, “All th’ same, this Buonaparte has the devil’s luck—how else c’n he just vanish? No one sees him an’ all his ships?”

“Remembering the size of the Mediterranean, above a million square miles . . .” Renzi put in.

“But not forgetting that we haven’t touched land since Sardinia. Wood ’n’ water, stores—we can’t go on like this for ever,” Bampton observed.

“If I don’t misread, Nelson is not y’r man to give away th’

game. He’ll hunt ’em down wherever they’re hidin’ and then we’ll have our fight. He’s had bad fortune, is all,” Kydd declared.